How to deal with the fake people in your life

I was only thirteen when I contemplated suicide, the idea seemed so enticing. My bullies, my problems, and my pain would all be left behind. My tears would be dried and erased with the blood of no tomorrow. Even then I knew I needed help, but I hid it. I hid the scars, I hid the pills. All of it was hidden in the darkest place a person could possess.

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There were many days I wanted to drop to my knees and ask my mom to save me. I never did. I wanted to be strong. I wanted to make her proud of me. I liked the idea of carrying the world on my shoulders for her. She had enough to deal with, and I refused to be another burden.

“Look at her, she looks like she contagious, skinny, black bitch,” Khloe and her friends circled me. Every day I went to school she and those other bitches teased me. I tried my best to stay out of the way, to stay far away from them much as possible but somehow they always found me and made me pay the price of existing.

“Leave me alone,” I begged. I begged mercy five days out the week, and I cried alone in my room on the weekends because I was so afraid to go back to school. Afraid to face my biggest fear again. I would sit in my room on the weekend and cry and every Sunday I contemplated suicide.

If I was dead, I wouldn’t have to worrying about being bullied, whatever they choose to say about me wouldn’t matter because I would be dead. They could call me all the horrible names in the book but none of them would grace my ears again.

“What are you going to do stupid bitch?” Khloe shoved me against the lockers. I knew how to fight, I knew how to defend myself. But didn’t, I didn’t hit her back or try to hurt her. All I wanted was friends, for them to accept me. They never did. And all years passed, that would be a mistake they paid for and I was going to be sure of it.

“Nothing,” I choked out through the tears.

“Khloe made it cry, I never knew dogs could shed tears,” Nesa laughed. They all walked away once the hallways were starting to fill due to children being let out of class. It was the last day of school. The last day of dealing with them for a while. I could fade away from the spotlight for three months. I always looked forward to summer break. There was nothing like being home without having to be forced to go out and deal with the world.

I darted to the bathroom with tearstains on my cheeks, I hate crying at school and it always due to the same group of vicious teenagers. They liked picking on people like me because they could. Their parents held great jobs, they lived in gated communities while I went to sleep on an empty stomach and shared a house with rodents.

I have to give props to my mom though, she tried her best to provide for my brother and me, I learned, however, that some people aren’t blessed like others. Some suffer for no apparent reason while the uptight snobs kept getting richer.

I viewed myself in that bathroom mirror and cried all over again. I was weak. They made me this inferior person because they could.

“I hate being here,” I punched the mirror, I instantly regretted it too. Shards of glass were trapped in my knuckles, it was the worse pain I ever inflicted upon myself at the time. It was worse than slicing my wrist and making railroad marks on my thighs at night.

One of the girls from my second block class walked out of the bathroom stall and eyeballed me like I had lost my mind. I didn’t. Not that day at least. I stayed in that bathroom until I knew the hallways were clear, I even missed the bus to dodge the hatred I received from other girls that went to school with me. I use to have friends before Khloe and her crew ran them off, now they were even too scared to sit with me at lunch or passwords in the hallway. They refused to be bullied because of me. And I couldn’t blame them at all.

Once I knew for sure the coast was clear, I started on my path home like I did most days. Sometimes my mother would be pissed at me for being late because she had to go to work and that meant I had to watch my little brother who wasn’t much younger than me. I was thirteen and he was eleven, she had us two years apart by the same good for nothing nigga.

That evening I made it home, I was free. I was finally away from my nightmare and the people who caused me pain.

I was wrong though….
That summer the darkest part of me surfaced and it never went away, I found out that I could be two people at a time. I could be me, Charity Diana Lexington or my alter ego Ursula, Charity was a person who wanted to be accepted, who longed for friends. However, Ursula was the complete opposite, she didn’t need the security of friends, and she could take life like God gave lives.

An Excerpt From K. A. Williams’ Psychotic: A Murderer’s Confession.
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